The Burning Man

by Edward Figg

  ‘No. I think we’ll leave it at that. And thank you for the quick results. You’ve done a great job. You have been most helpful.’ He nodded briefly at two constables as they made their way over to the window table. ‘At least that clears up one major thing,’ he said, looking down at the papers.

  ‘And what’s that?’ she said, picking up her cup.

  ‘Well, if there were any evidence of murder there would be no point now in pursuing the case because the perpetrator, whoever he or she was, would be long dead. It’s also saved me from trolling through all those missing person reports for those twenty-five years. I doubt if the record would even be available now, anyway. They would have been destroyed long ago.’ He raised his cup in the air. ‘Cheers. Here’s to carbon-14.’

  She swallowed the last of her coffee. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I had better be getting back. I have a class scheduled for this afternoon.’ She dug into her shoulder bag, took out her card and gave it to him. ‘If I can help in any way, please don't hesitate to call.’

  ‘Thank you again for coming,’ he said, as they stood up. ‘I’ll show you out.’

  After watching her walk over to her parked car, he stood out on the front steps, thinking, then turned and walked back into the reception area.

  Spotting him, Sergeant Crane came out from around the counter. ‘Nice-looking lady, that.’

  Turner turned and stared through the glass doors, watching her as she got into her car.

  Looking at her card, all it had on it was her home address in Bridge, a village which lies just outside of Canterbury, and her phone number.

  A nice catch for someone, thought Turner.

  Chapter 15

  The red Victorian post box on River Road stood like a sentry guarding the entrance to the street. Here in this older part of Kingsport, the narrow streets were hardly wide enough to allow two cars to pass in opposite directions and people had to park with their wheels upon the pavement. It was an obstacle course for pedestrians and drivers alike. Hollingsworth remembered that Cobblers Lane, where Singh’s shop was held-up and robbed five days ago, was only two streets away.

  The tall, brick-built semi-detached building situated on the corner of River Road, was long and narrow with a garden stretching down one side of it. In its time, it had been an impressive house, but years of neglect had taken its toll. Some brickwork needed re-painting. It was once the parish workhouse, but in later times, converted into a soup kitchen and night shelter for the needy and the homeless.

  Hollingsworth walked up two flights of stone steps and rang the bell. He turned and looked back to the car. Jill Richardson was sitting in the passenger seat, staring out of the window and talking on her mobile. He turned back as the front door was pulled open. The woman who stood in the doorway was the same one he’d spoken to back at Kent Street just a few hours before. She had then introduced herself as Isabel. She now stood before him dressed in the same plain, grey, featureless dress she had on earlier. The only difference now was that she had a sort of housecoat on over it, that came down to her ankles.

  ‘Ah. Detective Constable Hollingsworth. Please do come in.’ She heralded a strong Irish accent.

  Standing back, she opened the door wider for him. He stepped in. The hallway was wide and extended with a staircase to one side leading to the floors above. The tired- looking carpet that ran its length had seen better days. It was worn and threadbare. The walls on either side were adorned with religious icons and paintings.

  From an open door, further down the hall, came singing and the tantalising aroma of roast beef. It made Hollingsworth feel hungry. He checked his watch and thought about lunch. It shouldn’t take them long to drive Bear around the Moreton Estate. With any luck, we could be back well before the cafeteria closes at one thirty, he thought. Fridays were bangers and mash, one of his favourites.

  ‘He’s in the day room,’ she said. ‘He’s watching television. We’ve tidied him up best as we can. He’s had a shower and a haircut. We’ve also given him some cleaner clothes. I think you’ll agree — he looks and smells a lot better, but for how long he stays like that only the good Lord can say. Unfortunately, he’s not one of our regulars. We only get to see him when the authorities bring him in. Maybe we could administer for his needs a lot better.’ She sighed. ‘He's through here.’

  He followed her down the hallway. On the way, they passed a sign that read, Dining Room. He glanced in. The dining room, which was more of a mess hall, was laid ready for the main meal later that afternoon. The Formica tables with metal chairs allowed for small groups of four to sit together. Comfort was an afterthought. On each chair was just a thin cushion.

  She saw him looking. ‘We cater for about twenty homeless. We try to do our best with what little funding we get, but that’s not nearly enough. We have to rely heavily on volunteers and handouts. With winter coming on, people are at their most vulnerable when the temperature drops. Many of them that sleep rough will drink alcohol or take substances to help them get off to sleep in the cold. Our accommodation here is basic, safe, secure and warm. But I’m afraid we can’t accommodate all the homeless.’

  On entering the room, they found Bear sitting in an overstuffed armchair in the far corner of the room, giggling at the antics on the screen. Two other men were seated at a table, playing dominoes. Hollingsworth recognised the program Bear was watching. It was Sesame Street. He was surprised to see the change in Bear. His hair and beard had been trimmed and combed. His face and hands were clean. ‘You've done a sterling job on him, that's for sure. He looks almost human.’

  The lady in grey smiled. ‘I can't take all the credit for that. At first, he was very reluctant to let us get him cleaned up. It was Sister Monica, the one you heard singing in the kitchen. She rolled up her sleeves and got stuck in. She can be very persuasive at times, and she's twice as big as your Mr Bear.’

  On hearing the word ‘Sister,’ Hollingsworth suddenly remembered the religious items on the walls in the hallway. ‘Blimey sorry, Sister Isabel,’ he said. ‘I had no idea this was run by nuns. I thought it was the local authority that ran this place. It’s just that, well I'm used to seeing… well, you know, nuns in habits.’

  ‘Please, you don't have to apologise, Constable. We don’t always wear them, and it does help to put these poor unfortunates at ease,’ she said, ‘because gaining their trust can sometimes be very hard. They think that we are trying to turn them into devout Christians. Not so. As the daughters of charity, we are also interested in their health and well-being. Okay, if you’ll wait a moment, I’ll get Mr Bear ready.’ She took a pace into the room and, as an afterthought, turned back and said, ‘Please try to persuade him to come in more often. We’ve told him, he’s welcome here, any time.’

  ‘Try offering free drinks with dinner,’ he mumbled quietly, ‘and you’ll have him for life.’

  She turned back. ‘Pardon. Did you say something?’

  ‘Err, I said I’d have a word.’

  With Edward Bear safely deposited in the back seat, Hollingsworth slipped the Ford Mondeo into gear and pulled away from the curb. He drove down the street, turned left and headed towards the High Street. Considering it was Market Day, the traffic was light.

  When he reached the junction, he waited for a bus to pass, then pulled out. Jill Richardson stared out of the side window as they drove through the hustle and bustle of the Market Square with all kinds of stalls selling their wares. As usual, it was crowded with people. Stallholders were hollering out their exclusive deals, customers haggling over prices, people gossiping. Ladies with baskets on their arms went from stall to stall, checking out the cost of vegetables. They were hagglers by nature, loving nothing more than to go to the markets in search of a good bargain.

  They continued, driving out of town, over the old stone bridge and accelerated up the hill and out towards the Moreton Estate.

  About a mile out from the centre of the town they passed through the more affluent part of Kingsport. The ho
uses on each side of the road had gardens large enough to accommodate farm animals, but this was no rural district. These homes were many times larger than even the biggest of families would need. In each one of them, it was mostly parents with one child.

  Here, just a little way out of town, was a world where children went to private schools and the parents went to cocktail parties. Out here, children did not play hopscotch on the pavement. Hollingsworth smiled as he thought about his world. It consisted of his job, a one-bedroom flat above the Corner Café and a half bottle of chardonnay waiting for him back in his fridge.

  Jill Richardson looked up from the street directory she’d been studying and turned and spoke to Bear. He blinked several times, slowly, and squinted at her. It was like he was having trouble focusing. ‘When we get there, yell out if you see anything that looks vaguely familiar.’

  What came back sounded like a grunt.

  She turned back, suggesting to Hollingsworth the route they should take. Near the turnoff to the estate, roadworks was in progress. The traffic was stop-start. Cars and trucks were hopping down the road like frogs. Hollingsworth sat impatiently tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for his line of traffic to move off. After glancing at the dashboard clock, he let out a groan. The vision of bangers and mash that had filled his head back at the night shelter was fast beginning to disappear. All he could see now was cheese and pickle sandwiches.

  ****

  Back in Kent Street CID, Detective Inspector Ted Baxter gazed out of over the rooftops of the nearby buildings at the distant hills. To his left, he could see across into the Kent Street Memorial Park. There was only one solitary person in there. It was an old gent who appeared to be reading a newspaper.

  The last rays of the late afternoon sun fell, slanting through the window and onto his desk.

  Jill Richardson passed his open door. He called to her. ‘Jill.’ She turned and came back.

  ‘Any luck. Did Bear come through for you?’

  She stood in the doorway. ‘Total waste of time. We had to go around that blinking estate three times. The bugger kept falling asleep. By the time we twigged what was happening it was too late. It turned out that he’d swiped a bottle of cooking sherry from the night shelter’s kitchen and hid it under his coat. He swigged most of it before we got there. The state he was in, he couldn’t tell a blasted lemon tree from a frigging rose bush. What with that, and Luke blathering on about missing his lunch. As I said before, it was a total waste of time. We dropped him back at the shelter. They got him sleeping it off.’

  Baxter looked out into the room. Hollingsworth wasn’t at his desk. ‘Where’s Luke now?’

  ‘Last I saw of him, he was on his hands and knees crawling through the cafeteria doors, suffering from malnutrition.’ She breathed in sharply, sighed, then started to walk away.

  ‘When he comes back, tell him to come and see me. I’ve got a job for him.’

  Some five minutes later, Hollingsworth pushed his way back through the doors of the CID office and headed over to his desk. He was still feeling a bit grumpy about the loss of his bangers and mash as he tossed the sandwich pack onto his desk. He removed his jacket and sat down.

  Richardson looked over at him. ‘Before you get yourself comfortable, the DI wants to see you.’

  ‘What for?’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Don't know. The DI didn’t take me into his confidence. Just said he had a job for you.’ She inclined her head in the direction of his office. ‘Go find out.’

  ‘I could drop dead of starvation before I get there.’ He eyed off the sandwiches.

  She sat, shaking her head. ‘Fer fuck sake, Luke, you missed lunch. It was only bangers and mash. It’s not the end of the world — grow up, get over it.’

  ‘All week, I look forward to it on Fridays. It’s my perfect start to the weekend.’ He let out a huge sigh, straightened his tie and walked off towards Baxter’s office.

  Baxter put down his phone and looked up as Hollingsworth tapped on the door and walked in.

  ‘You wanted me, guv?’

  ‘Yes, Luke. Shut the door.’ He indicated the chair. ‘Take a pew.’ He sifted through some papers on the desk and selected the ones he wanted.

  ‘I see you’re on as standby tomorrow?’

  He sat down, crossing his legs. ‘Yes, boss, that’s right. Nine till three.’

  ‘A couple of hours ago, the DCI got a phone call from the Derbyshire force requesting our help. I’ve now received all the details along with his picture. There’s an arrest warrant out for this James Terrance Wilson, wanted on their patch for aggravated burglary, assault with a deadly weapon and robbery. They have information he’s here in town staying with his cousin, Clarence Evans.’

  He handed him a sheet of paper. ‘I want you to check out this address. Make sure that Evans does live there and find out if anyone else is staying there as well. Make sure you do it discreetly. We need to make sure that Derby got it right. I don't know where they got their intelligence from, so I don't want to go charging into the wrong house mob-handed.’ Hollingsworth looked at the address. Another trip to the Moreton Estate. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘I’ve had a word with the DCI. Just you, I and PCs Best and Tanner should be able to handle it. Shouldn’t be too much of a problem. If he is there, we’ll get it over with early; catch them all in bed.’

  ‘What was the deadly weapon?’ asked Hollingsworth.

  Baxter looked down at the details in the print-out. He held out both hands and shook his head.

  ‘No idea. It doesn’t say.’

  Hollingsworth picked up the photo from the desk and studied it. The man’s face showed severe scarring. One ran from his forehead across his eye and down his right cheek.

  ‘Ugly looking sod, isn’t he? At least he’ll be easy to recognise.’

  There was a knock at the door. PCs Tony Best and Bert Tanner stood looking through the glass-panelled door. Baxter beckoned them in.

  ‘Well done, lads. Right on time,’ said Baxter. ‘Sit down. We’ll need to go over the details for the morning. We go at six, but I'll confirm that later once we know our quarry is at home.’

  Chapter 16

  Saturday 5:45 a.m.

  It was still dark, and Sevastopol Terrace lay wet from the overnight rain. It had again started to pitter-patter on the rooves of cars as they sat there. Baxter sat, waiting for Hollingsworth to return. PCs Tanner and Best were parked a few yards behind them. A car sped past, its tires hissing on the wet tarmac, its lights and wipers on. The sodium streetlights created smudgy pools of watery yellow light around their bases.

  A little way up the road, the lone figure of Luke Hollingsworth could be seen, walking back toward the car. He opened the door and got in the passenger seat.

  Hollingsworth had made inquiries with neighbours the night before. Two men were in the house.

  ‘Someone’s up because the front bedroom and the hall lights are on,’ he said to Baxter, wiping the rain from his face.

  ‘Okay, so we know there’s only the two of ‘em in the house. Right. Let’s get this done.’ He spoke quietly into his radio, giving instructions to those in the car behind. He then started the engine and moved slowly up the road, coming to a halt outside of the house. The other patrol car pulled in behind Baxter and switched off its headlights. Quietly shutting the car doors, they got out and stood by the garden gate.

  ‘You all know what you have to do? You, Tanner, go around the back. He looked to see if PC Best had the red battering ram ready to slam it against the door lock should it be needed. Okay, let’s go.’

  They all moved off down the path and, ducking under low overhanging branches of a tree, they silently approached the front door. Tanner peeled off and went off around the side of the house. Baxter counted slowly to ten to allow Tanner time to get into position, then hammered hard on the door. He waited. Nobody came. He was about to give the nod to PC Best to hit the door when a voice yelled from
inside the house.

  ‘Where’s your bloody key?’

  Footsteps were heard approaching the door. The catch was released, and the door was suddenly thrown back. Standing before them was a man wearing pyjama bottoms. The top half of him was covered by a threadbare pullover. On his feet, he wore slippers. His hair was wild and unruly. Seeing the uniformed constable, he stiffened. His face went pale. There was panic in his eyes. Shocked, he took an involuntary step backwards.

  Baxter, thinking he was about to try to shut the door on him, stepped quickly over the threshold. At that same moment, PC Tanner came out through the kitchen and stood at the end of the hall. The man turned and saw him. If he had any ideas about running away, he quickly gave it up after seeing his path blocked by Tanner standing in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Mr. Evans? I’m Detective Inspector Baxter, and I'm here to search these premises. We have a warrant for the arrest of James Terrance Wilson who we believe is staying at this address.’

  The man's face suddenly took on a surprised look. ‘I'm sorry, but I don't know who you are referring too! I don’t know anyone called Wilson. I live ‘ere on my own.’ he screeched. ‘I'm alone.’

  From down the hall, Tanner called out. ‘Well, how come you have two cups sitting on your kitchen table then?’

  ‘PC Best, check the downstairs rooms. Mr Evans, let’s go through to the kitchen, shall we? We need to talk.’

  The kitchen was, by no stretch of the imagination, modern, or come to that, hygienic. In the middle stood a Formica table with four matching chairs. On the table were two dirty cups and some empty beer bottles lined up like skittles. On one wall was a set of cupboards that cried out for a coat of paint. One of them had a door missing. Over in the corner next to the sink stood a gas cooker. The cooker’s top was stained and dirty. Standing by the kitchen door was an old-style cream-coloured Electrolux fridge. The ceiling, with a single bare light bulb that hung from it, was stained yellow from neglect and years of cigarette smoke. The walls had also fallen victim to the same problem. The kitchen was a perfect breeding ground for bacteria.